


how the parties get to "yes"

by rillrill



Series: Revolutionary Whore [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Begging, M/M, Restraints, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M, background HamxGW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jefferson takes a step closer. He’s not so much taller, but his heeled boots force Alexander to look up to meet his gaze. “I’ll tell him how you begged for it,” he breathes, and Alexander shudders involuntarily, an unwanted chill running down his spine. “Got down on your knees and pleaded for us to have mercy on you. As we both know that’s a position you’re well accustomed to, <i>Alexander</i>.”</p><p>Unorthodox forms of political negotiation, and other things that happened in the room where it happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how the parties get to "yes"

**Author's Note:**

> I'm never going to the Smithsonian again.

Washington’s office is empty and dark. Not so much as a strip of light falls out from under the door, and the outer office feels cold and untrodden — more like an unused, forgotten anteroom than the outer chamber of the private office that belongs to the nation’s leader.  
  
Alexander’s mind is racing, reeling with hundreds of worst-case scenarios as he paces back and forth outside the empty office. He can’t shut his brain off, couldn’t if he tried. So he doesn’t try at all. After all, his panic and anxiety stem from a very real place, he rationalizes. He cannot afford to lose. He is Alexander goddamn Hamilton, and he doesn’t make a hobby of losing, especially not when the outcome rests on his own shoulders. He leaves nothing up to fate or circumstance. He fights. He uses words, invective, uses his brain and does what it takes to win.  
  
He’s not going to lose this battle. Not this one.  
  
Except — it’s not fate he’s up against this time. It’s James Madison and Thomas Jefferson, and for the life of him he’ll never understand what these men have against him. Particularly Madison, because it wasn’t so long ago that they worked together. He wants to scream every time Madison snubs him in the halls of Congress — _did you forget Publius?_ This Constitution over which they make a habit of fighting so viciously now wouldn’t have been ratified if they hadn’t been able to work together in the first place. And as much as he wishes he could write off Madison as a sycophant, riding his friends’ coattails to the outer edges of greatness and declaring that good enough, the truth is that he has a brilliant mind of his own.  
  
No, the issue, as Alexander sees it, isn’t Madison himself. It’s Jefferson’s influence, and Jefferson in general. Because after Jefferson’s return from Paris, nothing has been the same, and the partnership — disagreements and all — that Hamilton occasionally envisioned himself building with Madison has completely gone up in smoke. He’ll never understand what he did to provoke such regard from the Secretary of State, but not a day goes by that he doesn’t yearn and burn for Jefferson’s approval on some level because of it.  
  
The blame falls on Jefferson, he decides, because he is the one who encourages this schism, knowing fully well that Hamilton cannot back down from a fight. He goads him in cabinet meetings, sneers at him in the halls, makes it all but impossible for Hamilton to let the matter go — and then it’s Jefferson who affects the holier-than-thou, he-started-it attitude, climbs onto his high horse and shames Hamilton for taking the bait he laid so carefully in the first place. As if he forgets who baited him. No, if this debt plan fails, it won’t be Hamilton’s own fault.  
  
“Hamilton,” he hears, that slimy sneer from over his shoulder, and spins on his heel to find Jefferson behind him, one hip cocked, a hand on his hip and a ream of paper in his other hand, smirking for all his worth. And Alexander frowns, that burn in the pit of his stomach a bit more pronounced as Jefferson looks him over, not even bothering to conceal the motion. Dark, wicked eyes sweep over him, leaving him feeling strangely vulnerable — and violated, in a way he hasn’t felt in quite some time.  
  
“Mister Secretary,” Alexander finally forces out, after what he knows was a too-long pause. “What do you want?”  
  
“I could ask you the same thing,” Jefferson says. “Camped out on Washington’s doorstep so early in the day? Ooh, is Daddy getting worried about the financial situation?”  
  
Alexander feels his stomach churn at the word. What does Jefferson _know_? What has he heard — or _overheard_ , as the case may very well be? He pushes the (horrifying) thought out of his occupied mind and shakes his head brusquely. “There are private matters to be discussed,” he says in a haughty tone, drawing himself up to his full height. “None of which concern you, Jefferson.”  
  
Jefferson smirks again, and Hamilton feels his cheeks heat up in spite of himself. He hates this, this elaborate dance of mutual loathing, hates that Jefferson won’t just have it out with him and settle these differences the way men do — with fists or pistols or lips and teeth, whichever happens first or naturally.  
  
“Right,” Jefferson drawls. “You know your plan’s a joke, Hamilton—” Hamilton opens his mouth to protest, and Jefferson holds up a hand, signaling for his silence. “—but. I’m on my way to meet with James. He might be convinced to hear you out over dinner, if I tell him the right story.”  
  
“What,” Alexander says, feigning disinterest, “do you plan to tell him?”  
  
Jefferson takes a step closer. He’s not so much taller, but his heeled boots force Alexander to look up to meet his gaze. “I’ll tell him how you begged for it,” he breathes, and Alexander shudders involuntarily, an unwanted chill running down his spine. “Got down on your knees and pleaded for us to have mercy on you. As we both know that’s a position you’re well accustomed to, Alexander.”  
  
And then he’s gone, as swiftly as he arrived, a bounce in his step as he makes his way down the narrow corridor.  
  
When Washington arrives, several long minutes later, Alexander is nearly too preoccupied to notice. It’s only the hand on his shoulder and the grave “son” that accompanies it that bring him back to earth. Washington lets them both into his office, looking weary and world-beaten as he does.  
  
“Any progress to report?” Washington doesn’t mince words, and it occurs to Hamilton that he shouldn’t either. But the answer he has, the truth he’s brought with him to this meeting, is unsatisfactory. He knows as much. And he finds himself compelled to embellish, make it more acceptable to his commander-in-chief’s ears.  
  
“Some,” he says, pacing the floor. “Before you arrived, I ran into Jefferson. Total coincidence. He guessed that I was waiting to see you about the plan, and—he seemed interested.”  
  
“Is that all?” Washington says dully, glancing at him over the top of his glasses, and Hamilton frowns.  
  
“No,” he says contentiously. “He promised to tell Madison it’s time to talk. I know you think I’m incapable of compromise, but this is one situation where I know I can—”  
  
“Compromise,” Washington repeats incredulously, and Alexander’s cheeks heat up again, for the second time in the hour.  
  
“I know how it sounds, he says. “I need your approval. I need to know how much to give away.” He perches on the edge of Washington’s desk, beside the chair where the President sits, still not looking up from his papers. Arms folded over his chest, Alexander jiggles one leg relentlessly, energy surging through him. “And if Madison won’t talk to me—”  
  
“Then you’ll have to find another answer,” Washington says shortly. “Do what you have to, son.” Washington’s hand lands absentmindedly on his knee, and Alexander leans into it.  
  
“Yes, sir,” he says automatically, his mind still elsewhere, and Washington finally looks up.  
  
  
  
Jefferson sends along a messenger that night, envelope in hand. Alexander rips it open to find a single sheet of paper — a letter, an invitation to dinner. With himself and Madison. Alexander furrows his brow, pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration as he looks over the final few lines:  
  
_Perhaps the three of us might be so fortunate as to arrive at a mutual solution to the intractable political quagmire in which we currently reside. Perhaps it is not so intractable after all. Then again, there remains the possibility that some of us will have to bend further than others. How flexible do you think you can be for us?_  
  
_T. Jeff_  
  
The suggestion lies on the table, clear as day. And it isn’t as if he doesn’t expect it, on some level. Jefferson’s demeanor that morning had all but confirmed that his reputation in the cabinet had outgrown his innermost circle. But — Washington is one thing. What he and Washington have, have always had, is sacred. It’s no one’s business but their own, and it certainly isn’t any of Jefferson’s concern.  
  
Much as it pains him to admit it, though, Jefferson is right. They’re at an impasse, and if it comes down to it, to fail the passage of this plan is tantamount to failing the nation he has worked so hard to build. And under these circumstances, it seems downright treasonous not to refuse an offer like this.  
  
And the more he thinks about it, the more the idea appeals to him, fills him with equal parts shame and intrigue. It’s not as though he’s never taken notice of Jefferson. Far from it, in fact; and now the approval for which he constantly burns is just within his grasp. Madison — reticent and disapproving as he may be, he has a staid presence that always filled Alexander with a similar desire to impress and please. Yes, this the kind of compromise he’s more than willing to make.  
  
  
  
He runs into Aaron Burr in the halls of Congress and they share a short bit of banter, one that leaves Alexanderwondering how much Burr _knows_. “Madison and Jefferson are merciless,” Burr warns him in a knowing tone, and it sets something aflame inside him.  
  
_Very well,_ he thinks in response, _so they may be_. He can’t help wondering how much firsthand knowledge Burr has of the subject. He doesn’t ask. He shakes his head and lets the thought go.  
  
Alexander dresses for dinner in his finest, determined to impress or intimidate. Buttons his cuffs a little tighter, puts on new breeches and a bottle-green silk jacket that matches. When he knocks on the door of Jefferson’s private residence, his blood is buzzing in anticipation, and he steps into the foyer, anxiously looking around as he’s led down the hall to the dining room.  
  
Jefferson and Madison both rise to meet him. “Hamilton,” Jefferson says graciously. “So glad you could be compelled to join us tonight.”  
  
“You made a compelling offer,” Alexander shrugs, and Jefferson and Madison both exchange a meaningful look before returning their attention to him.  
  
“Right,” Madison says. “Well. Let’s get down to it. On the sixteenth page of your plan, you state…”  
  
Alexander is taken aback, but he waits. He dives in to defend his propositions, but his mind is on a different proposition entirely. By the third hour, he feels cheated, brought here under false pretenses — and suspects that Jefferson used what knowledge he had of his privileged relationship with Washington to manipulate him into a meeting he wouldn’t have taken otherwise.  
  
By the time the issue of the capital arises, three and three-quarter hours into the meal, it’s one for which he’s prepared, and not inclined to argue over, for a change. Jefferson does most of the talking, raises the topic like it’s a challenge. But Alexander is frustrated, and his voice is hoarse, and he feels a familiar sort of aggression beginning to bubble up inside him.  
  
“How badly do you want this? Your capital city on the Potomac, rather than Philadelphia or New York City,” he says, almost bored. “You see, I am indeed inclined to compromise. But you’ll forgive me for admitting, indiscreet as the notion may be, that I find the process of negotiating a physically invigorating one. Perhaps we would all be more inclined to a more gracious agreement on the issue of the treasury if we took a moment to — negotiate ourselves.”  
  
Jefferson cocks a brow. “I don’t know what you’re implying, Hamilton,” he says. “But you will not earn this financial plan through acts of gross indecency.”  
  
“Who said it was going to be an equal exchange?” Alexander challenges him. “You brought me here for a reason, Jefferson. There’s no reason why a negotiation of this dry nature couldn’t have taken place in your own office — unless you had underlying motives for desiring the privacy of your own residence.” He clears his throat, and then adds, “You made yourself quite clear in your letter. Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear enough. I came here with very specific expectations. Don’t let me down.”  
  
There’s another long pause, and then Jefferson and Madison exchange a look, loaded like a pistol and twice as deadly. Slowly, Madison nods — once, gravely.  
  
And then Jefferson is pushing his chair back from the table, rising to walk around behind Alexander and rest both hands heavily on his shoulders. “You’re lucky I’m so understanding, Alexander,” he says, squeezing down on Alexander’s tense trapeziums. Alexander takes a deep breath, forces himself mindfully to relax, as Madison looks at him inscrutably from across the table. “Your reputation precedes you, but not every man would be so willing to indulge you on such a level. However, I am… open-minded, you may say.”  
  
“Mr. Burr can testify, the two of us are rarely so open to the spirit of compromise and sharing,” Madison agrees. “And even when we are, we can be—”  
  
“Merciless,” Alexander finishes. “So I’ve heard.”  
  
Jefferson chuckles behind him, and the hands on his shoulders begin to make their way upward, one of them stroking his cheek while the other tangles in his hair. “What else have you heard?” he asks, his voice a soft taunt. “What makes you so confident when you say that?”  
  
Alexander tilts his head back, looking up lazily at where Jefferson stands above him, still stroking his cheek. “Experience,” he answers. “There is very little, at this point, that is likely to make me falter or give me pause.”  
  
Jefferson languidly runs one hand down Alexander’s cheek to thumb at his bottom lip. On a whim, Hamilton opens his mouth, and two of Jefferson’s fingers slip inside. He closes his lips around them, sucking on them softly, and Jefferson’s eyes seem to darken with lust as Alexander swirls his tongue around them.  
  
“I see,” Jefferson says after a moment, and his free hand tightens in Alexander’s hair.  
  
It isn’t gentle. But then, why would he expect it to be? Jefferson hauls him up out of his chair and onto the table, unbuttoning and pulling off his jacket as he does. Kisses are pressed into his neck and jaw as he gasps against them, digging his fingers into the tablecloth and holding on for dear life. Madison reaches down to unbutton his breeches and boots, yanking them off as quickly as he can.  
  
He’s panting as Jefferson sucks a bruising kiss into the side of his jaw, and then there are two sets of hands all over him. He’s grateful for the solid base of the table. Jefferson’s unbuttoning his shirt now, and is about to yank it off as well when Madison signals him to stop.  
  
“Wait,” Madison says. “We can use that, if he needs to be restrained. What do you think, sound good?”  
  
A single glance at Alexander’s quickly stiffening cock gives away that yes, it does sound good, and Jefferson chuckles as he pulls at Alexander’s shirt without unbuttoning the tight cuffs. He twists it up, knots it just so and yanks Alexander’s arms above his head in a way that renders his hands tied tightly together. Restrained thusly on the table, Hamilton has never felt so exposed. He groans into Jefferson’s mouth as one of Madison’s hands finds his cock — or is it the other way around? It’s overwhelming, so much so that he can barely tell the difference between the two men on top of him.  
  
Jefferson is laughing a little as he pulls away, breaking the kiss. “Hamilton,” he says, “why don’t you show James how you begged for this meeting the other morning?” Alexander’s cheeks flush as he recalls their flirtation in the hall, Jefferson’s promise of embellishment in its description apparently fulfilled. “Go on,” he adds. “Beg us for the votes, and maybe I’ll do you the honor of fucking you while James holds you down—”  
  
Alexander’s jaw clenches as he weighs his words carefully, suddenly desperate to be restrained, pinned down, helpless and shameful. “Please,” he begins, eyes flicking up to meet Jefferson’s. “Please don’t let Washington down like this. Don’t make _me_ let him down. Provide me the votes, and you can have whatever you want.”  
  
“The capital?” Jefferson breathes, shrugging out of his own jacket. “You’ll let it go to the South?”  
  
“W-whatever you want,” Alexander stutters, his breath catching in his throat. “Please, Jefferson, Madison—”  
  
“Mr. Secretary.”  
  
“Yes.” He feels desperate, greedy, like a whore laid out with his arms tangled in his own shirt, vise-like. “Mr. Secretary. Mr. Madison. Please, _please_ , let this debt plan pass as we’ve outlined, we have to, you have to—I can’t afford to fail, please, you know this.”  
  
And then Madison is nodding at Jefferson again, pressing both his hands down on Alexander’s shoulders, and it’s all a blur from there. Two of Jefferson’s fingers, slick with oil and larger than Alexander bargained for, push inside him in a single smooth motion. It’s rough and not particularly sensual to Alexander, who has always preferred even a false veneer of desire, some semblance of eroticism instead of outright contempt. But Jefferson looks down at him with the same sneer on his face, and that same sick feeling of _want_ comes rushing back to him. He wants this, wants to make both of these men proud, to make them praise him. Alexander arches his back upward, throws Jefferson a contemptuous look, and summarily forgets his place.  
  
“Is that the best you both can do?” he says, his voice a taunt to match Jefferson’s usual cadence as those fingers twist inside him. “You’ll have to work harder if you wish to fuck a compromise out of me—”  
  
Jefferson’s bearing down on him, knees spread to bracket his hips as he thrusts harder. “The time for compromise has passed, Alexander,” he laughs breathily. “Flip him over,” he says to Madison, “and let’s have some fun.”  
  
He’s never felt so helpless as Madison flips him onto his front, untangling the shirt-cuffs enough to get him onto all fours. There’s some sort of shuffling around, a realignment of their positions, and then Jefferson’s in front of him, stroking his jaw as Madison begins to press inside him in one slick, smooth thrust. But rather than picking up the pace, he stills his hips, and Alexander feels himself let out a frustrated whine. He looks over his shoulder at Madison, whose face remains as impassive as ever.  
  
“I don’t wish to exert myself on your behalf, Hamilton,” he says. “Perhaps you should take your own advice and _do the work_.”  
  
Alexander’s face burns as he processes Madison’s words. But slowly, obediently, he rocks forward, dragging himself along Madison’s cock, and then pushes back, getting used to the angle, the fullness, the sensation — so different from Washington’s, and yet essentially the same. Little by little, he works up a rhythm, fucking himself back onto Madison with his head hung and shoulders slumped from exertion, his own cock hard and neglected below.  
  
And then, suddenly, Jefferson’s back in front of him, stroking his jaw with his fingers and laughing, his mass of curls flopping forward into his face as he looks down at Alexander with a grin. “I’m not going to wait for James to be finished with you,” he says as he undoes his own breeches with a deft hand. “Not sure that I could, to be honest. Just look at you.” Alexander licks his lips automatically as Jefferson gets his cock out and lifts his head just enough to let him get a hand through his hair, rubbing the head against his lips and then, finally, thrusting into his mouth.  
  
There’s a moment where Alexander is thrown off balance, uncertain of how to manage the incongruous motions and sensations, but then Jefferson laughs again and begins to fuck into his mouth in earnest, and Alexander can’t do anything but let him go and try not to gag. He lets the motion parry him between Jefferson and Madison, doesn’t fight the momentum because the harder Jefferson fucks into his mouth, the less he has to exert himself. It's intensely undignified, he's got no leverage, he's gagging and drooling and his eyes are beginning to tear up from the pressure on his throat. And all he can focus on is the grounding feeling of Madison’s wide hands gripping his hips tightly and Jefferson's long fingers in his hair, and the realization that he’s doing this for his country, for his commander, for his legacy.  
  
What’s a legacy, anyway? There’s a plan on the table, perhaps somewhere underneath him, and he’s going to get it passed. He knows this isn't for him, this isn't about his pleasure. And yet, he enjoys it nonetheless, the humiliation and powerlessness of his position hitting him more like a drug with every thrust. And meanwhile, Jefferson won’t shut up, keeps chattering to Madison about the new capital’s proximity to Monticello and the foreshortened commute he’ll enjoy once it’s built.  
  
“You hear that, Hamilton?” Jefferson asks, and his thrusts are beginning to quicken in a way that Alexander suspects signifies that his release is imminent. “Sure, keep the banks. We’ll have the capital. We’ll be far enough away that the creditors and speculators won’t be able to lay their greedy little hands on my government. _Our_ government. I—” He gasps a little, stutters, breaking the momentum, and then he's coming in Alexander’s mouth, down his throat, salty and bitter, and he tries to swallow it all but isn't quite fast enough.

 At this, Alexander does finally choke, and Jefferson pulls out of his mouth, smirking at him and then up at Madison. And Alexander lets his head drop to the table, gasping and sucking in as much air as he can, lifting one hand to wipe the spit and seed off his chin. He can't move. He doesn't have the energy. With as much as he can muster, he takes a deep breath and mutters, “Will that be all, sir?”

 Madison is silent for a moment, doesn't move. "Keep going," he says after a pause. "I don't believe I'm finished yet."

 And summoning his last burst of energy, an adrenaline rush he didn't know he had, Alexander pushes himself back up onto his elbows and back onto Madison’s cock. For his country. For America.

  
  
“No one needs to know what we’ve done here tonight,” Alexander says as he steps out the front door, and Jefferson and Madison exchange another look.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Jefferson says. “No one will ever know.”


End file.
